Chapter 5 #4
“Minor mishap with the samples. We’ve cleaned up as best we could.” Hudson offered her an apology.
“I see. And have you made your selections for Mr. Kussikov and Ms. Martin?”
I glanced at Hudson, who gave a slight nod.
“We think the cardamom-rose, the zabaglione with blackberry, and the vanilla bean with salted caramel would provide the best options,” I said, my voice steady.
“Excellent choices. I’ll prepare tasting boxes for the couple to make the final decision. You two make quite the team, despite your... competitive nature.”
If she only knew.
Back in my apartment that evening, I showered away the last traces of frosting, and settled at my desk with my laptop. Work would keep my mind off what had happened. At least, that was the hope.
I opened the prototype of my wedding planning app, the secret project I’d been developing for months.
Even Anica didn’t know about it, mainly because Callan was a nosy ass, and with his tech background, he’d probably have too many opinions.
And I was always of the mind that opinions were like butt holes; everyone had one and they all stink.
What had started as a simple organization tool had evolved into something more comprehensive.
I wasn’t a genius when it came to coding and tech things, but I’d messed around with it in college for fun (and because it’d pissed off my parents, who had wanted their daughter to be a boring lawyer).
It was a simple platform that combined planning features with emotional storytelling elements.
It was similar to other wedding apps, except it catered towards professional wedding planners rather than DIY weddings from brides, though I was sure uptight brides could figure it out too with a little practice.
I’d put in information for all the vendors we’d worked with over the years that had passed both Anica’s and my stamp of approval.
Hopefully, with the expansion projects, I could expand the app’s resources as well.
Even if it was just for me.
As I worked on the interface, I begrudgingly incorporated some things Hudson had said since we’d started working on the Kussikov-Martin wedding.
When he’d mentioned “structural stability for outdoor installations” during our venue tour, I’d rolled my eyes, but now I was adding a weather contingency planning feature.
I integrated more detailed timeline capabilities, vendor verification systems, and structural stability checks for decorative elements.
Things I would have dismissed before, but regretfully recognized as valuable complements to my more creative features.
“Damn it,” I muttered, realizing I was essentially building Hudson Gable into my app. His voice was in my head, pointing out practical considerations I’d have previously ignored. “One point for the asshole.”
I wouldn’t tell him about the app, of course.
I didn’t want to have some dick mansplain what was wrong with the app, especially if that dick was Hudson. He might want my body, but I doubted he’d respect my approach or value my perspective.
If it had to be just physical between us, so be it. But that weasel was not going to, well, weasel his way into my inner sanctum. That would mean opening myself up to judgment and disappointment and eventual rejection when he realized I couldn’t be molded into his idea of perfection.
I saved my work on the app and closed my laptop, exhaustion finally catching up with me. As I climbed into bed, my phone pinged with a text from the dillweed.
I hope we’re still professional competitors.
I stared at the screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
What was I supposed to say? That despite my best intentions, I couldn’t stop thinking about him?
That our little cake tasting make-out session had only made me want more?
That I was terrified of what that might mean? I finally typed out a response.
Still competitors. Still professional. When it suits me.
His response came almost immediately.
Glad to hear it. Your cake selections were excellent, by the way. Even if I had to throw out that shirt.
I smiled despite myself.
You look better without one anyways.
What the actual shit was wrong with me? I tried to recall the text, but he’d already read it.
“Shit. Shit. Shit,” I muttered, staring at the three little dots as he typed out a response.
They disappeared, and I nearly chucked my phone across the room.
“I’m an idiot. I’m a fucking idiot.” The dots reappeared, and I held my breath.
They disappeared. “Damn it, Gable, just put me out of my misery.”
The threat worked as his message finally arrived.
Is that right? Should I take that as a professional observation, Ms. Landry?
My heart pounded as I read his message. God, even his texts sounded like him, composed with just enough suggestion to make me squirm.
Merely an aesthetic assessment. For the client’s benefit, of course.
Of course. And while we’re making professional observations, I should mention that the way you tasted surpassed every cake we tried today.
Heat flooded my body, pooling low in my belly. I bit my lip, staring at his words. Two could play this game.
Just wait until you try white chocolate raspberry ganache. I’ve been told it pairs nicely with...certain areas.
The three dots appeared, disappeared, then reappeared. I imagined him on the other end, composing and deleting responses, maybe as flustered as I was. God, I hoped he was as flustered.
I’m adding that to my tasting notes. Don’t forget, flower consultation. 2pm. Get some sleep, Landry. Dream of all the places I could lick frosting off you while you were tied down, and I’ll see you tomorrow.
Damn you, Gable.
Sweet dreams, sweetheart.
I groaned and dropped my phone onto the bed.
What was happening to me? I’d gone from hating the guy to fantasizing about him.
I turned off my phone and pulled the covers over my head, trying to ignore the persistent throb between my legs.
Two months of this. Two months of fighting this pull between us.
Two months of pretending that what was happening was just physical.
The Kussikov-Martin wedding was going to be the death of me.
More importantly, Hudson Gable was going to be the death of me. Him, and his damn tongue.